an evening dons the platitudes and rearranges blame to sort reiterated concepts of a casualty in vain, forcing a hand beyond no avid scope or crossing barriers hoping to land beneath the waters, floating with the current; waves distorting pictures showing elementary crimes. there is no halfway point between lies. there is no shadow over the eyes of the people shown each day and night that life is just a borrowed sight into maniacal refuse; a caption on a photo, fused onto buildings removed at twilight. is it all a bit tried? don’t the canyons divide? don’t the lakes reflect skies, to a camera’s delight? don’t the boulevards burst? aren’t the days all reversed? is this world one of instance or instinct or worse: a story brought forth.